


What We Bring To The Table

by TimTheToaster (tabletoptime)



Series: Playing The Cards We're Dealt [2]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Implications and discussion of violence, no actual violence in this one though, political maneuvering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 17:37:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20086123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabletoptime/pseuds/TimTheToaster
Summary: No point thinking about maybes though. Not with the Adjudicator sitting across from him, at a prim and precise angle. It was like they were being held in place by the razor wires of the High Table as their weaponized puppet.Or it was just the clear stick up their ass. One of the two.





	What We Bring To The Table

It was with no small amount of irritation that John sat down at a table in the Continental’s lounge.

He had planned on stewing in his aches for the evening to ration the medication he’d been given to get an extra day out of it. Instead, he had to take the recommended dose for fastest mobility ( _ four pills _ ) because, the way he saw it, the odds were decent the Adjudicator was here to shoot him or give him notice of yet another kill order. The rules were the rules, but who would hold the High Table responsible for breaking them? The Elder? Maybe, if anyone could fucking find the guy. 

More likely, he’d be declared excommunicado immediately and shot on principle. Hotel rules only arguably protected exiles. 

No point thinking about maybes though. Not with the Adjudicator sitting across from him, at a prim and precise angle. It was like they were being held in place by the razor wires of the High Table as their weaponized puppet.

Or it was just the clear stick up their ass. One of the two. 

“John Wick. You have caused a great deal of damage in the last few weeks. Enough to catch the attention of the High Table,” they said, eyes intent and hands folded.

This was not the time to seem anything but strong, injuries be damned. Instead of a shrug that might convey his pain, he gave a minute tilt of his head to show the bare minimum deference, “At no point has my intention been to antagonize the High Table. I’ve been handling personal matters, with the exception of fulfilling a Marker.”

A plucked eyebrow arched like the string of a bow taking aim. “Killing two members of the High Table, from the same seat no less, was not meant to be antagonizing? There are  _ rules _ against that kind of behaviour. And consequences for not adhering to them.”

“Those rules are not absolute. Especially not when one conflicts with another,” John wanted to just explain and go to bed, but if he offered information before the Adjudicator asked for it they’d likely assume he was lying. His circumstances  _ were _ far enough from standard conduct to be pretty unbelievable. 

The Adjudicator’s angle and gaze both sharpened, “In the last two weeks you eliminated the core leadership of a Bratva organization, leaving it directionless, but reasonably intact. Allegedly, over a puppy.”

“It wasn’t just a puppy,” John objected flatly, eyeing the tightened clasp of the Adjudicator’s hands.

“You also assassinated two D’Antonio heirs, likely forcing them to surrender their place at the High Table to another family. Presumably, but not necessarily, from the Camorra.” 

Wait a second. 

“The rules and sanctions on killing members of the High Table allow for coordinated efforts to remove a representative family from their seat.”

John could see where this train of logic was going, and he needed to say something before- 

“Are you making a bid for the Camorra seat at the High Table in your name, or for someone else?”

John stared at them incredulously. “I’m a retired fixer. What would I even  _ do  _ with a High Table seat?”

The eyebrow was back. “Most fixers who live long enough to retire take up a management role. You’ve always been an exceptional anomaly in your work. Why would your retirement be any different?”

“Look-”

“Especially as there  _ is _ no other way to kill more than one High Table member without facing its justice, and you’re not fool enough to not know that.”

Ah. Shit. 

Could he work with this?

And if he could, could he live with diving deeper into the world he had worked so hard to leave? Did he even have a choice?

The hand John had placed on the table curled into a fist. He couldn’t take his eyes off of it. “I’m certain I don’t need to tell you the consequences of a failed bid for a Table seat.” Breathe. “Or the consequences of cards laid too early.” Eyes up. “Have you been given a deadline for your report?”

“I am expected to submit updates as my investigation develops. It seems to me the situation is still developing,” their eyes were inescapable and black, black,  _ black _ . “However, after three days, I will  _ have _ to provide as much information as I have.”

Bloody knuckles rested on polished dalbergia. “If anything relevant to your investigation comes to my attention, I’ll be in contact. Have a good evening.”

“I’ll be expecting your call, John.”

John rose from his seat, directing the tension his name in their mouth put in his shoulders down through his spine. It turned his stiff gait into something coiled rather than strained. Apparently, he was going to have to consider his image again. Especially if he somehow gave off the impression of  _ aspirations for the High Table, what the fuck. _

Except his clearest ticket to survival seemed to be  _ actually challenging for the High Table. _ Which was ridiculous. John had one hell of a skillset, but not that one.

Mind churning, John fought the urge to return to his dog and his room and settled in a seat as far away from the Adjudicator as he could without seeming like he was running. He was unlikely to get any sleep tonight, despite being exhausted and jet-lagged, and Winston was probably going to come for that word sooner rather than later. 

_ He _ couldn’t take a seat on the High Table, but if he wanted to bypass the consequences for killing the D’Antonios he was going to have to put  _ someone _ there. And they’d have to be someone not just personally capable of sitting there, but also have the connections and backing of a significant group if they were going to have any chance of lasting. 

They’d also have to not try and kill him on sight, since he wasn’t going to hand someone who wanted to kill him the power to do it, which narrowed the prospects significantly. 

Maybe the Rusca Roma? They had no real interest in a closer relationship with the Table, but the Director couldn’t just  _ turn away _ the possibility, turn away  _ him _ . Not if he used his ticket. But. John had spent years trying to escape that place and if he took that route he’d be chaining himself back to it.

A last resort, then, but not a first choice.

Maybe he could convince-

“Jonathan!” and there was Winston, genial mask in place. “There is grave word on the resolution of your affair with Mr. D’Antonio. Is it true?”

A head tilt. “You make it sound like there was any other way it was going to end.”

“Jonathan. With Santino dead there is no space for excuses or explanations. You will have to face the full charge of your crimes,” Winston frowned. “I assume the Adjudicator informed you of the situation. And yet you are not running.”

This conversation was exhausting. And unproductive. “There are circumstances that allow for my actions. I just have to make them the case.”

Winston’s eyes widened in understanding and he sat back. “And who exactly is going to be retroactively aiming for a seat?”

John stopped fighting the wire-tight energy and gently rapped his knuckles on the table. “I haven’t decided yet. Is that an official inquiry, or a personal one?” 

Flakes of blood stuck to the shining wood. 

Winston was ever so slightly paler than when this conversation began.

“An official one. I’m not looking for that brand of excitement in my life.” John’s fist relaxed open.

“I assumed. Unless you have any suggestions, I think I’ll retire for the evening,” he bit back a groan as he stood and no amount of painkillers could dull the bone-deep ache that rippled with the movement. 

Winston also stood, buttoning his jacket. “You always manage to find the most dangerous paths to your goals. If you need a place for discreet meetings, our boardrooms are available for use.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” John said with a polite nod. “Have a good night.”

John was not surprised by the lackluster response. Winston had no stake in this, despite his occasional blatant favouritism. He was a Manager, lord of his little kingdom, and they tended not to go outside their immediate grasp. Kept things neater, usually. In this case, it was only a little annoying.

He made his way to the elevators, once again aware of every eye on him, fighting the urge to twitch or kill something ( _ some _ ** _one_ ** ). Christ, he hadn’t had this much attention since shortly after his third job with the Tarasovs, where he’d ended up having to clear three warehouse instead of one thanks to bad intel. There had been a family of coked-up racoons. And grenade launchers. 

It had been a long night. 

Alright. So who could he convince to take a Table seat and would actually hold it without his  _ backing _ longterm?

He could try and appeal to a different Bratva family. John had to still have some of their contact information somewhere ( _ the bank on 60th. Or was it the rec centre off 23rd? _ ) But which one, and would they even agree after his takedown of the Tarasovs? Even if he did take the steps to pass on the Tarasov loose ends, they might just choose to call him unreliable and try to kill him. Which would not solve the problem, only make another batch of dead Bratva.

What about the Camorra? It  _ was _ their seat after all. John could just pick a family, toss them the metaphorical keys, and leave. Except while Santino had been an arrogant bastard, no one could deny that he was Camorra to the fucking bone. Not that the other families would take offense on his behalf, they were probably  _ delighted _ to hear about his death, but he was a warning for just how irritating the lot of them could be. If John gave them this, there was no guarantee they’d leave him alone. Ever. 

_ Ding. _

This wasn’t his floor. 

Cassian stood, one foot already in the elevator ( _ a foot and a half away, leading with his right side, start with a jab to the still fresh stab wound, twist if possible, and follow it up by- _ ).

He looked like he couldn’t decide between murderous rage and grudging respect. Or he would if it wasn’t for the hair-trigger set of his weight and the first moment millimetre flinch. 

Cassian’s first impulse had been to run. 

Not that he would have made it far, if John cared to chase him. After taking a knife to the heart, standing  _ at all _ was a feat of borderline stupid willpower. Running would be a death sentence. John wouldn’t even need to jog. 

The door tried to close and instead gently knocked into Cassian’s leading shoulder. He rocked back with it like he’d been shot, lips curled into a half-snarl. John would have steadied him, but figured he was probably still sore from their last fight and would take it as condescending pity.

“I’ll get the next one,” Cassian spat the words like blood and broken teeth.

Yeah, still sore. 

John inclined his head, more than he had to the Adjudicator but not as sharply as he had with Winston. “Cassian.”

They maintained eye contact until shining steel slid across, cleanly this time. 

Idly, John wondered if that counted as a conversation. Probably not. 

Which brought him back to his depressingly non-existent list of allies. Sure there were a handful of people who owed him, but it would be suicide to put them on the Table. Most of them might try and kill him before he could even offer. 

Maybe he was going about this the wrong way.

If John couldn’t give any family the Table seat he had to claim, maybe he could put up a different kind of faction. The Bowery King, for example, had built himself a kingdom adjacent to the Table (which is what it was, not under or beholden to, no matter what the King or the Table themselves believed). A kingdom of those who normally would not have any place in the system at all. But to build that kind of faction would take time, time John didn’t have. That was okay, John was good with knives, and corners generally didn’t squirm like people. He could cut them off clean. 

What if John chose a part of the system and gave it a voice?

Fixers were meant to be nameless, faceless tools. Useful until they weren’t, and utterly replaceable. The ideal fixer was little more than an entry on an expenses sheet and a call confirming work finished. Even the best fixers were, when all was said and done, expendable. 

John, for all he had been good at the work, hadn’t actually been good at the anonymity. He wasn’t the only one, of course. People would always gossip. But as much as he’d rather pretend otherwise, John  _ had _ made a significant impact on not just those he worked with, but a great deal of their world in general.

There hadn’t always been this many restrictions on attempting to kill members of the High Table, after all. 

John had made a point to know every rule that he couldn’t afford to break. It was just that his definitions of what he could afford had changed a lot over the years. And apparently, someone on or near the Table thought they knew what lines he would and wouldn’t cross, and had tried to preemptively dissuade him. Too bad he had been a bit busy to consult the unwritten rulebook in case of updates. 

He could cope. He had to.

Now obviously a faction of fixers would have to be a very loose faction. It would also require its own rules of conduct and interaction. They would often be hired in opposition to each other, and that had to be accounted for. It would need territory. And if it had territory it would need capital to maintain that territory. 

Most importantly, though, it would need there to be some kind of incentive so fixers actually  _ took part _ . What could John actually offer to fixers that they couldn’t get anywhere else in their world?

Unless those rules and territory  _ were _ what he was offering, with the implication he would enforce them personally. There were a great many personal and professional grudges in their world. John could capitalize on that by establishing a place and system to settle those grudges between fixers. No one wanted to be looking over their shoulder for the rest of their lives, and very few people in their business had all that much patience. 

This was going to be complicated, and three days probably wasn’t enough time to actually do it. But he could probably back up any instability with a couple of supporters in key positions. There was a Manager that owed him a favour, after all, and the Bowery King liked anything that undercut the Table. 

John could make it work.

_ Ding. _

This time, the stop actually was his floor. 

**Author's Note:**

> I said I'd write this, so I did. I had a great time until about halfway through where I realized I also did not have a solution to John's problems, at which point I slowed right the heck down. But I got there in the end! Kind of, at least. 
> 
> I could try and write more? But idk if writing the three days of phone calls and meetings would be all that interesting, especially because OCs would become a factor and that tends to be a toss-up. 
> 
> Regardless, thanks for reading! And all the support on the last one was lovely and definitely a factor in why I finished this at all. Cheers!!
> 
> My writing blog is tablestoastandtime.tumblr.com if you ever want to chat :)


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